Ghost Writer [Harry Styles][H.S. Fanfic]

10 - SLEDGEHAMMER

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The weekend arrives, and I've been standing in front of my open dresser drawer for fifteen minutes staring at my menagerie of swimsuits, whose colors range all across the rainbow.

There has to be around thirty or so in there... I'm not even sure, but that's still after donating more than half prior to me moving here. About ninety percent of them were my signature itty-bitty bikini go-tos when I was surfing that I couldn't bring myself to part with. The rest are an assortment of one-pieces, which are so scanty that they may as well have been made from dental floss just like the others... All apart from one, anyway.

My stomach grows increasingly nauseous by the second, scanning over the suits I'm no longer comfortable wearing anymore. I grab the black one-piece with the high neckline that I wore last weekend when Harry stayed the night by accident.

I mean... I think it was an accident, as far as I'm aware...

I slip off my boy shorts and pull my sports bra over my head, tossing them in the laundry basket in the corner before threading each of my legs into the suit one by one. I shimmy the skin-hugging fabric over my hips and up my torso, but the moment I grab the first strap to hook my arm inside, I hear a gut-wrenching snap, and my heart plummets.

Are you shitting me?

"Fuck me," I whine into the air, stomping my foot like a child.

I knit my eyes closed and pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, while puffs of air heave through my lips as I begin to get worked up. My head drops back to take a few drawn out, cleansing breaths so I don't fucking cry.

"It's fine. It's not like I have to get in the water. I can just wear a t-shirt or something. Calm the fuck down." I give myself a horrible pep talk, shaking my hands out, and rolling my neck and shoulders a couple times to loosen up.

"Or I can cancel. Yeah... I could do that. Bitch, you're so fucking smart," I praise my mind as I high-five myself.

When I hear my phone ring, it forces my chaotic existence back into the present moment. I pry open my eyes and glare at the device with all the hatred I can muster up before striding over to where I left it on the nightstand to pick it up.

An unfamiliar number flashes across the screen which isn't something out of the ordinary for me, because I have new artists calling my work number linked through an app I have all the time, requesting a song or to work with me.

I sigh, picking up the pieces of my previously dwindled composure before I swipe my thumb over the green answer key, and bring the phone up to my ear.

"Hello?" I pin the phone between my head and shoulder, tugging the torn suit off my body.

"Guess who." The familiar knee-buckling raspy accent is enough for my throat to let out an uncontrollable groan.

"How did you get this number, Harry? Was it Mitch? Oh, who am I kidding? Of course, it was Mitch. That little shit." I throw the useless garment into the trashcan with a huff and trudge over to the dresser again.

"Well, good morning to you too, sunshine," he chuckles, more so from his play on words for what he just called me than by my peeved demeanor, I assume. "Why are you so grumpy this early in the morning? The day has barely even started."

"The strap on my suit just broke. So, I'm going to take it as a sign that I should probably just stay home today. Cool? Bless your heart! I knew you'd understand," I ramble without taking time for a breath, asking and answering my own question.